


Act And Not Talk

by babyrubysoho



Category: Bump of Chicken (Band)
Genre: Chama, Chama POV, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Fluff and Smut, Fuji POV, Happy Ending, M/M, Mean Fuji, Musicians, Oral Sex, Rare Fandoms, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiro is moping. Fuji is mean. And Chama is observant.</p><p>So...pretty sure I'm the only person around writing Bump fic. Probably the only one reading it too.<br/>Except for my dear S, to whom this story is dedicated: Thank you for introducing me to this adorable band and their beautiful music! I hope you enjoy the fluff and smut, and that Fuji-kun isn't too mean :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act And Not Talk

Cold and sweet. That’s Fujiwara. Cold and sweet as a daiquiri: all sugar, and enough ice to bite deep into your back teeth and _sting_.

 

* * *

 

You could put that in a song, thinks Chama. And he would, too, if he wanted the whole world to know who their singer _really_ is behind that emotive voice. But he doesn’t. It’s too weird.

Chama lolls in the studio’s most comfortable chair, camera in his lap and oversized straw between his teeth as he noisily sucks up the last of his bubble tea, and idly observes his bandmates. They don’t have any particular reason to be here: no imminent tour, no releases for the next few months. It’s just where they gravitate in the absence of anything better to do. The one place where they don’t have to worry about getting along with normal people.

Today it’s Fuji-kun and Hiro, both of them cross-legged on the ratty sofa. If one of them’s there, the other will be; they come as a pair, a matched set of tall, skinny mutes. Always been the same, ever since school. Right now Hiro is talking, because once again he’s managed to fail at one of these normal-people relationships: his girlfriend wants them to take a break. So the two of them are providing a sympathetic ear. Well. At least one of them is. See, Chama _likes_ people. Likes making them feel better, regardless of merit. He’s not always so sure about Fuji.

“So, I mean…what can I really do?” Hiro sighs, and Chama, nodding comfortingly, catches the briefest flash of – what – contempt? – from beneath their singer’s over-long fringe. It’s not a sneer, not really. But it’s something: the faint curl of that expressive top lip. It lasts just a moment before Fuji-kun recovers his attitude of quiet attention. Still, Chama has seen that expression before. And when he’s not bouncing around the place like a puppy on crack, Chama can sit still and cogitate pretty damn deeply, thank you very much. And this particular trait in their singer has kept his brain ticking over for years.

“Hmm,” says Fuji-kun, neutral now, and stretches out his lanky arm just enough to let Hiro begin tapping out an absent, worried rhythm against the pale skin of his wrist. Hiro likes human contact, and their vocalist is usually the one to indulge him. Almost everything Fuji-kun does seems sweet, as thoughtful and gentle as his songs. But then there’s that face. And what it means.

Chama chews thoughtfully on a tapioca ball and remembers their middle school days, their tenuous hold on friendship in the face of peer pressure and messy adolescence. It had been difficult, oh, had it ever; but here they are, still together, and that’s due in large part to Fuji-kun’s choice to not be one of _those kids_. Those little pricks who made their lives just that bit harder. Not that Chama had thought about it when they were young; he’d been too busy enduring it. But now. Now he’s watching their vocalist, the curl of that upper lip quickly replaced by a friendly half-smile at Hiro. Now he remembers.

It’s a surprisingly fine line between bullied and bully, Chama has come to realise, and for a while there in school it had been fifty-fifty which side Fuji-kun would land on. He had enough attributes of both: Off-puttingly shy but good-looking; halfway between bony and model slim; nerdy but witty; supportive and loyal, but with a cruel edge that was totally invisible if you were his friend. You could see it in his face, though, if you watched him watching other kids; which Chama did, because he’s a people person. He can _feel_ it there, and he’s glad Fuji-kun came down on their side. With those looks and that sharp little sliver of darkness he could have easily gone the other way.

Chama gives himself and the others credit for that: their oh-so-charismatic combination of dorkiness, obsessive creativity, and sheer pathetic helplessness when it came to interacting with anyone outside their circle of four had tipped Fuji-kun in with them, left him stuck in the bullied zone until musical success at last made them socially acceptable. And _that_ would never have happened without him, their creative driving force, their pretty public face. Yeah, Chama is grateful. And sometimes worried. And sort of fascinated. Because both Fuijwaras are in there still, shacking up secretly, the kind and the cruel.

Fuji-kun is giving him a look. Not a mean look, just curious. Whoops. Chama is clearly staring at the wrong person. He turns his attention back to the man of the hour.

“Dude, you’re not pathetic,” he reassures Hiro, because that’s the last word he caught before he got lost down memory lane. The guitarist looks unconvinced. Fuji-kun smiles at them both. “You gotta just talk it out,” Chama advises. “Till she changes her mind.” He doesn’t know Hiro’s girlfriend all that well, but that’s what he’d do. Chama finds that if he talks long enough, the other person generally gives in and lets him have his way just to shut him up. It’s very effective.

Fuji-kun raises his eyebrows beneath his long fringe, and Chama knows that neither of these guys would have the verbal dexterity to take his advice even if they were inclined to; monologuing is not their thing.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” is Fuji-kun’s only comment. Shows what he thinks of _that_ advice. Snide.

“Crap!” Chama does. Early Mother’s Day outing, bugger, bugger, and he’s gonna be late. Okay, maybe not snide after all, maybe genuinely helpful. It’s so hard to tell with Fuji-kun. “Keep your chin up!” he tells Hiro brightly, and skips out, aiming his empty cup at the trash can and scoring a perfect goal. He can feel their singer’s gaze on the back of his neck.

 

* * *

 

Both of them watch their bouncy bassist leave. Hiro seems to have brightened up a bit, despite the smaller man’s laughable suggestion that he _talk things out_ with his girlfriend. But that’s always been Yoshi’s way, to be a little ray of sunshine: warm and bright and a whole lot of other things Fuji isn’t. Observant, too, it turns out. He’d seen that look.

What Yoshi doesn’t understand, thinks Fuji, leaning into the hand still petting his arm – what nobody understands – is that _he_ knows what’s best for Hiro. Because Hiro belongs to him, and always has. Not in a weird way, obviously. Not that he feels possessive about it – his arm now sliding around his guitarist’s narrow shoulders – just responsible. Territorial, at most. And it’s all very well for the others to sit back and watch their friend screw up a perfectly acceptable romance, but Fuji doesn’t have to let him.

It’s sad, really, Hiro’s lack of spine; Fuji hadn’t been able to stop the small snarl of exasperation as the younger man bemoaned the loss of another girlfriend, and he knows Yoshi saw it. But honestly, Hiro is no more awkward, no more socially useless than Fuji himself, and _he_ does all right, doesn’t he?

“There’s no point trying to stop her,” Hiro is saying dolefully, any optimism vanishing with Yoshi’s departure. “It won’t make anything better.”

Fuji stiffens slightly in displeasure, arm turning heavy on the back of Hiro’s skinny neck. This is the way it goes every time, and he can’t fathom _why_ , when the two of them are so alike under their skin. Why Hiro lets people walk all over him, even now. Fuji hasn’t let that happen to _him_ since high school. It had been a subtle metamorphosis, sure, but he did it. These days, Fuji gets his own way, and doesn’t care to be reminded of how things were back then.

All right, so the skin itself might be different. That might have something to do with it: after all, Hiro can’t be described as anything but plain, and thin (basically just plain thin), while he himself lucked into a kind of starving, waifish grace, as if he has bird bones in place of human. He knows it’s attractive. Still, Hiro ought to work with what he’s got; but for the second time this year, the younger man is just giving up. As if he expected things to go wrong. As if he _wanted_ them to.

Fuji can’t handle that apathy. Time to teach his friend a life lesson. Again.

He waits for Hiro to finish lamenting. Lets the younger man talk himself out, the way he never would with his girlfriend, Fuji’s arm a comforting anchor against his back. When Hiro gets up at last to wrangle the faulty coffee machine Fuji follows him, a noiseless shadow at his heels. He’s so light, he can move like a cat; when they were kids he always played the secret agent in their cop games: Chama was too loud, and Hiro was always tripping over his own gangly limbs.

“Whoa!” Hiro turns round, victorious, and almost drops his coffee. He grins, and Fuji mirrors the expression because he does like to see Hiro smile. “You’re like a _ninja_ ,” Hiro exclaims with a giggle. Fuji regards him from a foot away.

“Put it down,” he says, nodding at the paper cup. “Stop talking.” Hiro’s smile turns quizzical, but he’s always happy to humour his singer. He sets the cup on the break room sink, shaking the heat out of his fingers. Without waiting for questions Fuji reaches out and grabs Hiro’s chin, sees the surprise bloom on his face as the smile disappears from his own.

“Er…” says Hiro. Wary now. Fuji doesn’t speak for a minute; wonders if Hiro will get the point without words. Wonders if they’re close enough for that. Hiro is an inch or two taller than him, and Fuji has to raise his own chin in order to look down at him. He stares evenly at the younger man: he’s flushing, just a bit, confused.

“Are you listening?” Fuji demands quietly.

“…To what?” Hiro is frowning. Fuji can feel the pulse in his jaw quicken: nervous. He tugs Hiro’s chin down, straightens up, pins him with eye contact. _Balance_. Getting people’s attention, getting your way, it’s all about power balance; make sure it’s tipped in your direction and you’ve already won. You don’t even need body contact, though it does make things quicker. The look on Hiro’s open face shows he’s feeling the effects. But Fuji’s not convinced he _gets_ it.

“You want her to listen to you?” Fuji asks pointedly, voice soft and chilly. Hiro nods hesitantly, dark eyes wide. “You want your own way. And you want it without a big awkward discussion.” Naturally. It’s what everyone wants.

“Um. Yeah?”

“Well then.” Hiro’s pulse is racing, and Fuji bites down on a sharp, excited breath; having people do what you want shouldn’t be _this_ satisfying. Besides, sweet, obliging Hiro is too easy a target by far. This is just…providing the man with some helpful instruction. “It’s all about attitude,” he feels compelled to explain, because Hiro is staring at him like a deer in the headlights and the message probably isn’t getting across.

“…It is?”

“I’ve got _your_ attention, haven’t I?” says Fuji coolly, giving Hiro’s chin a small, vicious shake to emphasize his words. He hears his friend take an uneven breath. Angry? Surely not, not Hiro. Freaked out? Probably. Fuji is slightly worried about how good this feels, but pushes the thought aside. “…And if I ask you now, you’ll do what I want. Won’t you?”

Hiro gives him a look that Fuji interprets as _yes_. Finally. Point made. “Good,” murmurs Fuji, and kisses him. And – _what_? He’s _what_? Wait, this was no part of the lesson! Oh, sure, they say power is an aphrodisiac, but… Fuji is appalled at himself, but his slender fingers are still gripping the point of Hiro’s chin and his lips are pressed against his mouth, and he can feel the man’s heartbeat in the blood rushing beneath his skin.

Okay, thinks Fuji, horrified, let’s rationalize this. This… He swallows. Well, if anything, this hammers home his point, because Hiro is completely still and unprotesting against him: shows that if you tip someone far enough off balance, you can get them to go along with pretty much anything. Fuji is about to back off and explain this in a calm, rational manner, and then allow Hiro to go on his merry way. He shifts his weight.

Before he knows what’s happening he feels Hiro grab the back of his neck and pull him sharply into the kiss, mouth opening under his, fingers hot and trembling and trapping strands of his hair painfully. All of a sudden the balance is shifting, and Fuji feels a stab of something that is either panic or exhilaration beneath his ribs. Hiro’s hand tangles in his overgrown hair and _pulls_. Fuji’s eyes are half open and he sees the taller man straighten, using his height to tip Fuji’s head back and kiss him harder.

 _This_ is a power play, thinks Fuji hazily, whether Hiro knows he’s doing it or not. It’s deeply unnerving to feel the pressure of his friend’s mouth, hand cupping the back of his head like somehow Fuji is now a small thing, something to be careful with and not wary of like he was a bare few seconds ago. What has he gone and done?

Hiro runs out of breath and backs off an inch. Fuji can feel the trembling inhalation against his lips, though it seems he’s incapable of drawing breath himself; he can’t move beneath Hiro’s hand, thumb now caressing the tip of his ear. The younger man doesn’t notice his stillness.

“Yeah, I’ll do what you want,” whispers Hiro above him; the amazed quiver in his voice pulls a short gasp out of Fuji, and he doesn’t want to think about what _that_ means. “…This _is_ what you want?” Hiro adds after a long moment of silence, obviously unsure how to interpret it. In that moment of uncertainty Fuji feels the balance shift back to centre, and it’s his to grab if he wants it, and just what _does_ he want?

Hiro’s long fingers are warm on the nape of his neck, tracing plaintively along his vertebrae; Fuji feels the fine hair stand on end, such a vulnerable spot it is, and fails to repress a shiver. Hiro’s gaze is an insistent weight, and he can’t help but glance up and meet it: he’s never seen such a look directed at him before, not from anyone. Such a frisson of complicity between them. Oh. _This_ is what he wants…

“What I want,” Fuji manages, then _pushes_ him, one hand on his narrow chest, shoves him back against the sink and follows. The abandoned coffee splashes to the floor, ignored. Fuji quickly stretches up on his toes for the height advantage and pins Hiro there with his meagre weight, chest to chest and stomach to stomach, grabs Hiro’s head with both hands and kisses him. Immediately Hiro’s arms go around him, hands sweeping a familiar course from the top of his spine to the small of his back.

“ _Mm_ …” Fuji hums into his mouth. The sound is almost feline, a purr of reassurance because Hiro has touched him like this a thousand times, and for a second it makes him feel like this makes sense, like he’s not fracturing into conflicting shards of apprehension and sharp desire. Besides, it feels good; he arches into the touch and Hiro’s hands curl around his sides, thumbs hard on the points of his hipbones as he bites down on the guitarist’s lower lip.

One of them moans softly, a small, hungry sound. Fuji can’t even tell who it was, not now they’re sharing breath so intimately. He nips again, curiously licking at the seam of Hiro’s lips, and when Hiro’s tongue brushes his he has to cling to the man. Arms around his neck and Hiro’s heart thundering against his ribcage, he wonders if _this_ is what people saw their whole lives together, if this is what those jerks in middle school were picking up on when they teased and called them a couple: the way they just _fit_ , Hiro’s body alive against his own as if it’s totally natural to be kissing your best friend like you’ve never kissed anyone else in your life.

“Fuji, I, I wanna-” begins Hiro in a hoarse voice. Fuji blinks, and wasn’t he trying to regain control just now? He wraps his arms around Hiro’s waist and slams him bodily into the kitchen unit, and it’s not as though he’s strong but Hiro is so skinny; the taller man ends up halfway sitting in the sink and Fuji growls in satisfaction, his sweet voice robbing it of any menace, and worms his way between Hiro’s knees.

He’s about to say something – something about who is in charge here, who gets to say ‘ _I want_ ’ – when Hiro gets his hair in another frantic grip and yanks his head back to press a line of kisses along his jaw, down his pale throat. Fuji has to bite into his own lip to stifle a groan when Hiro’s mouth opens against his neck, hot and damp where his pulse is dancing frantically under the skin. His hands clutch at Hiro’s hips, pulling their bodies together; with a giddy flash he feels a stiffness press against his thigh, and this, the knowledge of what he’s doing to Hiro, mixes with the lips on the crook of his neck to send a shudder of pure _want_ through him.

“Get down from there.” He has to swallow before he speaks, his melodic voice turned shaky and rough. He tugs Hiro back to his feet, practically holding him up: the guitarist is leaning into him like he can’t stand by himself, entire body slotted tight against Fuji’s, and there’s no way either of them can miss the effect they’re having on the other.

“ _Fuji_ ,” breathes Hiro again, and it hits his ears like a plea. Fuji stretches up the inch it takes to kiss him, and slides his palms down his chest, skimming one nipple beneath the silky fabric of his t-shirt and catching a swift exhalation of pleasure.

“Keep quiet,” Fuji instructs, not sounding too steady himself. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t want to give either of them the chance to come to their senses, just sets his clever fingers to the buckle of Hiro’s belt.

“You’re seriously…” Hiro’s forehead dips to rest against Fuji’s, his hands relaxing their grip to trace along the older man’s thin wrists, barely brushing the skin as his nails caress Fuji’s bare arms. Fuji is watching all this raptly: the goose-bumps rising on his skin in the wake of Hiro’s touch, his fingers easing the leather belt open, the stutter in the movement of Hiro’s hands as Fuji cups him lightly through his worn jeans. They’re so close, breathing each other’s air, and he sees the moment Hiro closes his eyes and gives up all attempts at leading this.

 _This_ , Fuji thinks with a fierce thrill of joy, this is what he wants: his best friend under his hands, and under his control. He knows it now, and why has it taken so long, so many years, to see? But now that he understands…

Fuji presses a short, impatient kiss to Hiro’s parted lips, and before Hiro can embrace him again he drops to his knees. It hurts, the hard linoleum of the break room floor, but it’s worth it to look up and see the younger man’s face, a picture of amazed and slightly terrified disbelief. He’s clutching the edge of the sink like it’s the only solid, real thing left.

Fuji smiles at that. Arches his slim neck, leans up to nuzzle his nose into Hiro’s flat stomach; the scent of his skin, his clothing, is so familiar, the promise of comfort and trust. And now ownership. Fuji breathes into the soft fabric, senses rather than sees Hiro shiver. Kisses him, just above the navel, a mixture of affection and anticipation. Drags his lips downwards, slow, slow, until Hiro is squirming, trapped between the counter and the confining hands pressed flat against his hips.

He knows Hiro can feel his hands shaking – of course they are, he has no idea what he’s doing and can barely believe he’s doing it at all – but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t dare, not if he’s going to keep the power balance shifted in his favour. It seems to be working: Hiro is hard against his cheek, the faint scratch of the denim anchoring him to reality, to who and where they are and what they’re doing. It makes it scarier, somehow.

“You…you don’t have to do this, you know!” Hiro sounds almost as scared as he feels.

“Shut up,” Fuji tells him breathlessly, and rips open his jeans without any more pause for thought, pushing fabric aside. Hiro makes a strangled noise above him; then his hands come down to sink into Fuji’s hair, those sweet, careful hands, and suddenly Fuji isn’t worried any more, because this is _Hiro_ and there’s nothing to be afraid of.

He takes a deep breath, hands and mouth on unfamiliar skin. Now Hiro is whispering his name rapturously, over and over, Fuji’s lips robbing him of any other words, cradling his singer’s head as he draws him deeper. Fuji frowns in concentration; it’s hard to breathe, and at the same time utterly exhilarating, the _power_. He can feel it in every one of Hiro’s gasps, the helpless sounds of pleasure, the fingers trembling against his scalp. He digs his nails into the back of Hiro’s thighs and hangs on.

“ _Please_ …” mutters Hiro through gritted teeth, and it’s euphoric, hearing him like this. Fuji moves his tongue thoughtfully and hears a whimper, and that sound goes right to the pit of his stomach and spreads deliciously, heat shooting up to stain his pale cheeks. He lets out a little moan of his own; Hiro’s hands tighten against his temples, and the next thing Fuji knows he’s being tugged away and is taking gulps of cool, delicious air.

“What?” he demands, breath coming fast, surprised and strangely aroused at how doing this has changed his voice from its usual light purity to something far darker.

“You,” Hiro tells him, dragging him to his feet. His face is flushed like he’s been running for his life, brown eyes huge. “…Want this to be for _you_.” Fuji is trying to decide where this statement sits in power balance terms when Hiro wraps both arms around him and kisses him. Fuji’s lips are tender now, sensitive, and the younger man steers him with the kiss, back and back until his legs hit the sofa and they’ve returned to where all this started.

Fuji feels himself start to fall, and Hiro goes with him, clumsy as ever, landing on top of his vocalist and pinning him to the sofa cushions. That makes him cough, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and when he can reorient himself Hiro is trying to kiss him and tug his t-shirt off at the same time. Fuji raises his arms obligingly, then melts against his friend as Hiro’s guitar-calloused hands meet his bare skin, clasping him tight with one arm while the other fumbles its way between their bodies. He’s almost uncomfortably hard now, has been ever since Hiro gave up control.

“Let me…” he mutters, urgently batting Hiro’s ineffective hand aside and shoving his own jeans down off his hips; he’s so thin he doesn’t even have to unbutton. Hiro hinders more than he helps, one thigh pressed between Fuji’s legs and causing such delicious friction that the older man can barely think straight. “Now touch me,” orders Fuji imperiously, squirming until Hiro is pressed flush against him. “ _Fuck_ …!”

He doesn’t usually curse but this time he can’t help it as Hiro takes them both in hand, long fingers wrapping around them. The sensations of heat and movement are appallingly good, and he pushes back into Hiro’s hand, his intruding thigh, embarrassing little whines of arousal escaping with each breath. He silences himself by latching on to Hiro’s left earlobe with his white teeth and biting down sharply.

“Agh… _ahhh_!” Hiro’s pained yelp quickly turns to a pleased moan as Fuji replaces his teeth with his soothing lips. The guitarist doesn’t stop the dizzying rhythm of his hand but bends his head to the first patch of skin he can reach, the white curve of Fuji’s sharp collarbone. Fuji feels the path of his lips as a line of bright light. Hiro is moving faster, and every rational thought Fuji has ever had wipes itself from his mind, every touch he has ever felt concentrating between his legs. It’s intolerable. It’s wonderful. Then Hiro’s thumb brushes against his nipple and lips brush his lips like Fuji is something to be worshipped. That does it. No more thought.

Hiro kisses him through his orgasm, mouth bruisingly hard. Fuji clings to him, shaking, laughing, and Hiro’s laughing too, they’re both idiots, who the hell laughs at a time like this?

Fuji recovers first, the pleasure sinking bone-deep and melting into a stunned kind of satisfaction. There’s a lump in his throat, affection and delight, but now is no time to turn sappy: Hiro is still taut as a bowstring above him, breath shuddering against his neck. He knows exactly how to end this, just the way he started: cool and in control. It takes most of his strength to push Hiro off him and roll him over, reversing their positions. But the way his friend is gazing up at him makes it worthwhile.

“Don’t talk,” says Fuji, swinging one leg over Hiro’s body to straddle his thighs, holding him down with one hand splayed across his heart, the other closing around him to stroke him teasingly.

“Fuji…” the younger man begins helplessly. His words abruptly cut off as Fuji’s hand darts up to slide around his throat and hold him there with very gentle pressure.

“What did I say?” Fuji asks, smiling both sweet and cruel. He squeezes both hands lightly and Hiro makes a helpless sound; if anything he’s even harder under Fuji’s fingers. Fuji leans forward, almost within kissing distance: Hiro’s pupils are blown wide with feeling, dyeing his irises nearly black. It’s quite lovely, and flattering, for Fuji to know that he can cause this. He lets up on the pressure and slides his thumb softly over Hiro’s bottom lip, dips down to push his nose into the warm skin between his jaw and his ear.

“ _Please, please_ ,” Hiro is chanting, and Fuji loves that, loves how it sounds and what it means, so he begins to move his caressing hand in earnest. Hiro’s hands are tight, painful around his narrow waist, like Fuji is the only thing keeping him above water, and he’s gasping against Fuji’s cheek as if it’s the last breath he’ll ever take. Fuji speeds up, lying over him so their skin will touch everywhere it can, only pulling his head back at the moment Hiro comes so he can see his face. _Amazing_. It’s amazing, shocking that the sight of his friend falling apart can make his heart stumble and overflow like this. Any anger he had felt towards Hiro earlier has evaporated like smoke.

Hiro just looks at him, a moment of complete understanding: they _are_ alike, just the same under their skins, and now it’s Hiro’s turn to rise to the occasion, wrapping Fuji in his arms as the older man loses all his words. Fuji relaxes into the embrace, familiar and completely strange all at once, but above all _safe_. It’s just like the long decades behind them, just like always: here, only here, he can let go.

Fuji wonders whether seeing him like this, stripped bare and vulnerable and gentle, would make Yoshi think any better of him. That makes him start to giggle again; given the circumstances, the odds probably aren’t good. As his heartbeat slows, he finds his mind beginning to shift back to the mundane. He immediately feels himself turn red at the thought of how they must look right now; not to mention the state of the room.

“Gotta…clean the kitchen floor,” pipes up Hiro in a satiated, complaining mutter. In sync with him as always. He blushes. “And the sofa.” Shifts comfortably against Fuji’s damp, naked torso. “And you…”

“In a minute,” Fuji tells him, and stretches out like a sleek little cat. Just a minute.

When he next opens his eyes, Hiro is fast asleep. Fuji frowns, yawns. Doesn’t have the heart to wake him. The thing about the power balance, he reflects, is it’s made of give and take. And control addict or not, he knows in this moment there’s nothing he won’t give Hiro. Including nap time.

Grumbling to himself, Fuji clambers carefully off him, tugs his pants back up his hips and goes to find a mop.


End file.
